Kimi ga Oikaketa Yume
by smellslikechidna
Summary: When it all fits together, when everything is perfect, you still need more than one chance. [AshMisty, one-shot, Valentines '04 fanfic]


          I vanquish fluffy feelings.

          I am the Queen who flaps in the night.

          I want to be Gackt's crotch-splitting machine [don't ask].

          Happy Valentines Day. *evil grin*

          This fic is ENTIRELY based on the video for "Kimi Ga Oikaketa Yume", by Gackt, so those who have seen it know just what to expect. I'm so unoriginal it hurts XD But oh well.

          Theme song: "Kimi ga Oikaketa Yume" - Gackt

          ---

          _kimi ga oikaketa yume_

          _the dream that you chased_

          ---

          Ash felt a slow, easy smile creep up around his lips as he stretched in the patio restaurant chair, enjoying the rare moments of peace before they were inevitably shattered – though not always in unpleasant ways, he noted, grinning. Misty was meeting him here soon, and he had, by some amazing stroke of genius/luck/Brock, managed to get everything near perfect. Under pain of, well, pain [and a burned sketchbook], Tracey had squealed [both literally and figuratively]. Brock had told him about the tiny, pretty, sun trapped French café in the Viridian back-alleys, and the sun had shone so much today already that it was warm, and bright, and Ash had dumped his jacket on a neighbouring chair and was enjoying the sun himself. 

          It _would_ be perfect.

          But first, more caffeine was in order. Watching the exotic waiter deposit some cream-filled, heart-attack-causing mocha thing on a neighbouring table, he briefly wondered what he should get for Misty, before deciding that, for something like this, she would make herself 'fashionably late', skipping across the pavement in the giddy walk she always did in heels; the way the sun was shining in this tiny back-street would make her hair glow…

          He craned his neck slightly, watching a tiny delivery van make its way up the cobbled path followed by a red vintage car, trying to attract the attention of any passing waiter, and briefly entertained the notion of clicking his fingers and the oh-so-arrogant "Do you know who I am?", before banishing that thought away; his mother would kill him if he dared. He chuckled slightly, and raised his hand as a free waiter walked up to him.

          And straight past him.

          Ash blinked, almost dumbfounded, and then shrugged. Maybe they _had_ been busy, and he just hadn't noticed, but there was no call to completely _blank_ him, he noted indignantly. 

          The old businessman at the next table flipped out his foreign newspaper and bit into the Panini a waitress had set before him with an espresso. The young couple at a far table were holding hands, eyes full of their future. Ash watched them, envious in his waiting, and wondered where she was, glaring at a waitress who passed him by. Was this a game they were playing inside?

          He had a good mind to go and speak to the manager.

          _Mmm_, but, he thought as he stretched his legs out under the table, there was something just so pulling about being out in the sun today. It wasn't often it shone in Viridian, he noted ruefully. He yawned in his indolence, annoyed as he noted that the old guy with the paper was on his third coffee where as he was yet to be served, and indignant as another waiter passed him by, before he resolved to wait for Misty. 

          He wondered how much longer he _would_ have to wait, his stomach knotting in a nervous apprehension he hadn't felt in years, Butterfree literally dancing a Flamenco through his abdomen, his skin tingling with excitement as though he was seventeen again, before _the_ final match, except everything seemed to be on a greater scale. _She_ was on a greater scale. He turned his wrist over to check the time, and froze.

          How the hell did that happen? He brushed his finger over the jagged, broken glass, wincing when a tiny piece splintered into the pad of his finger, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

          It had stopped dead on time. Which could have been any time in the last twenty minutes, he noted worriedly, looking mournfully at the remnants of the glass face of the elegant [_expensive_, he noted angrily] watch piled on the table, before he stood from his seat, scanning the small street for any sign of her, but seeing nothing of her, but instead, a souped-up motorcar race around the corner, a group of nuns head up the hill to where the church bells were distantly tolling. It was all so… peaceful, he thought to himself, sitting back down and resting his chin in his hand, unable to stop his prying eyes from peeking again at that couple; he was hand-feeding her biscotti; Ash wondered if maybe Misty would ever want him to do the same? He stared dolefully at his broken watch, cursing the fool who had caused it [a nagging voice in the back of his head said it was his fault, but he ignored _that_], and wondered what the time was now – the sun was awfully high in the sky; the dappled shade dying. He thought perhaps he should have gotten a table with a parasol, then decided that a few more freckles wouldn't kill her [and, in all honestly, he figured it could be a game to play on sleepless nights, then flushed a bright cherry red when he realised exactly what that game would entail].

          The bells hit the hour, and Ash shot a puzzled look to the broken hands on his mangled watch. Maybe the impact had messed up the hands? Still, he stood again, glaring a dare to anyone that might be fool enough to try to steal his seat – and more importantly, _her_ seat, and he shielded his eyes from the sun as he glanced around the street for her familiar red hair.

          She was carrying a sun parasol and was in the shade, but her eyes still flickered and lit something in the base of his stomach he found difficult to explain. She was walking the dippy walk he had memorised down to every last sway of her hips, and the summer dress she was wearing did not help his already hyped-up imagination whatsoever.

          He pushed past the waiter who had ignored him the first time, hearing properly for the first time all of the sounds the little back alley produced, the loud cars from the main roads, the tinkle of coffee cups on saucers, the conversations of every person, the rustle of paper as the old guy turned a page. He felt his arm lift of his own accord and he waved to her, stepping out into the street. She didn't seem to have noticed him yet, but that was okay, just that she was _here_ was enough. 

          He felt his ear twitch, his spine suddenly prickled, he watched, puzzled, as her face paled suddenly and her jaw dropped, as everything seemed to _s…_

_l…_

_o…_

_w…_

_d…_

_o…_

_w…_

_n…_

          As he spun around, he saw the same vintage car from before careening towards him, brought his arms up to protect himself, looked the driver dead in his terrified eyes as the brakes were slammed onto the cobbled road; Ash tried to move but a disturbing sense of _deja-vu_ hooked his legs to the floor and he felt as though someone had played croquet using his stomach and a sledgehammer as the car…

          …passed straight through him? 

          His stomach slammed back into him, he staggered and wrapped his arms around himself frantically, his mind numb and buzzing and his ears deaf to all but the thought of _What the HELL just happened!?_

          His jaw hung open as he gasped for the breath that had left him, eyes frantically looking for something comprehensible as he tried to get his bearings back; he focused on a smooth cobble as he forced himself to stand up straight, his hands gripping at air to make sure they were still there. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears, turned towards where she was and saw that she was gone, realised that instead of ringing, he could hear screaming, and he rounded on her voice, only…

          Only that the car was stopped there, a thin plume of smoke coming from the engine, a crowd slowly gathering around it, the driver screaming for an ambulance, an old lady screaming for a priest, and he could hear Misty just screaming, and gutting him each time she drew breath. 

          Someone _was_ hurt, he noted, as he inched closer; he could see a hand limp on the ground, the watch they wore cracked and broken and the glass shattered on the ground. As he walked closer, itching to fold Misty up in his arms so she wouldn't have to see, he slowly realised that he'd already lost the chance. 

          He watched her, faced her, as she was begging his real, dying self not to leave her, even though he knew he was already past obeying her this once.

          He watched the small pool underneath his head ruin that summer dress she wore.

          He looked himself in the eye as he gave up focusing his eyes on anything and left himself to whatever devices were left to one like him.

          He wanted to tear out his heart when he heard her tell him what he had wanted to tell her; felt his own fake, fantasmic tears leaking down his face as someone covered him with their overcoat; he saw hers as she seemed to look him in the eyes, looking frantically for anyone and heard her protest as someone tried to take her away; he wanted nothing more than to have seen her smile one more time, something that he could take with him wherever he was supposed to go now.

          A shuffling old priest bustled down the hill, performed the Last Rites just as the ambulance could be heard over her denial, but Ash knew, heartsick, that it was futile.

          How could a man relive his own death, otherwise?

          Something was tugging inside of him, and he turned away from the wreckage of him, made his way back over to the table he had sat at before, watched the young couple holding hands, the old man flick out his business paper, the crowd slowly disperse and vanish. It almost got easier every time, he mused silently, sipping the mocha that had been set on his table, watching with dark, heavy eyes the fading image of paramedic trying to ease her beautiful, perfect, crying self away from him as the driver sobbed apologies to her as she cried and the siren wailed and he bled and all was quiet again as he stretched out in the patio chair outside the pretty, sun-trapped French café, with a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

          Of course, always, there was next time. Maybe he could change things next time, maybe next time, somehow, something would be different.

          But always, the image of her, in her dress and strappy heels, her eyes shining through shaded shadow – for him? – would always haunt him.

          He was grateful for her smile just that one last time.

--

kimi no egao o miseteokure  
dare yori suteki na boku no taisetsu na sono egao o

Let me see your smile  
It's more wonderful and more precious to me than anything else, that smile

--

[a/n] Happy Valentines Day, 2004

Bwa-ha-ha-ha.

Blatantly obvious from the start though, yes?


End file.
